On The Edge Of The Great Plain

I take the OS7962 over the border to Hungary in the morning. Strangely, the international train consists of just two coaches. I trace the train's progress on my map and find that it's routed along a series of interconnected rural secondary lines. Every few miles it stops at small halts and stations surrounded by farmland; sometimes there are a couple of smallholdings nearby, but often there is nothing but fields as far as the eye can see. The stops are brief - a formality - and no one gets on or off as far as I can tell. At the border, the two carriages are joined to a waiting Hungarian train, and a flood of people get on. Three women with a teenage girl share my compartment. They have bags of textiles and produce bought cheaply in Slovakia which they compare with each other, smoothing creases and rubbing sweet scented leaves between their fingers. The girl plays idly with her mobile phone and chews and pops gum, bored and interested in the women's bargains; when the gum popping irritates me sufficiently, I stand in the corridor and smoke, watching the brown and grey fields rush by, the bright reds and oranges of the autumnal trees flashing by the lineside. At each station, even the ones we pass through, the station master is framed in his office door, standing to attention in his blue uniform and tall hat, a railway tradition. I change trains at Miskolc, and again at Nyiregyhaza. The sun is going down and I'm surprised by how cold it is; my Czech fleece is no defence as I huddle in a shelter on the platform. I find an empty compartment for the last leg of the journey, slide the door shut and turn the heater to full. The sky is as dark and cold as an ocean and threads of chimney smoke shiver in the air over the villages we pass; only the occasional glow of some distant town hints at any warmth outside the window. I have called ahead and booked a room in Debrecen for my late arrival. There is a portable television balanced on the chest of drawers and the forecast says it will be -2 tonight; the radiators are cold, but when I ask the receptionist she shakes her head and returns to her Ciao magazine. I find a shop and buy some bread and spicy ham, some Borsodi, and a can of herring fillets in mustard sauce; I eat this with some pickled paprika and feel warmer, if a little sour mouthed and acidic. At 11pm the radiators clunk and gurgle, and for fifteen minutes, I embrace them like long lost friends until the heating is cut off again.
In the morning I dress quickly against the chill. When I draw back the curtains, the sky is crystal clear and the rooftops are dusted with frost. The horizon disappears in a misty haze that reminds me of a January morning in England. The only person I can find downstairs is the cleaning woman, who is quite eccentric. She talks at me incessantly despite my lack of understanding. She gibbers and giggles, wrings her hands and nods her head, and finally concludes: Sindane? Fruhstuck? She makes me the worst espresso I have ever tasted - where is the cook, the receptionist, anybody? - and shakes her head and wags a forbidding finger when I ask for a second cup. Clearly the coffee is as strictly rationed as the meager heating, and I am not going to try negotiating with a deranged cleaner at this hour of the morning.
I am ill-prepared for the change in weather, and set about rectifying this with a visit to Kaiser's supermarket. I have my worthless Czech fleece over my British polo shirt and a highly unfashionable zip-up Slovakian sweatshirt; to this I add a Hungarian waterproof jacket that costs me seven pounds and is branded Cherokee - sets off the headress and tomahawk beautifully, if I may be so bold, Sir. I am now warmer and truly Pan-European in my dress - even if the whole lot has been made cheaply in Bangladesh or Vietnam.
I walk to Debrecen Palyvaudvar and drink a Borsodi in the Bufe that looks out over the platforms and sidings. A Russian built M62 brings in a long freight train from the East and leaves it in one of the holding tracks; the veteran diesel is in a deplorable condition and a thick fog of exhaust drifts through the station as it heads off. It is probably 40 years old and still running on it's original engine if the noise and smoke are anything to go by; never the most economical or reliable of machines, it is a wonder it has survived this long. An M43 shunting engine flies around the sidings, splitting and joining the trains - a couple of tankers from that one, three or four coal wagons from this one, all backed onto the string of timber wagons over there. The man who hooks and unhooks the couplings hangs precariously from the engine's front steps, leaping off before it comes to a stop and diving between the moving wagons, an acrobat. Sometimes the engine driver simply nudges a wagon and lets it roll down the siding alone, where the acrobat is waiting with a wedge to throw under the leading wheels, a primitive brake. I watch as a tanker of corrosive liquid rolls slowly towards him and hits the rail-wedge; it pushes the brake a good 30 feet, the front wheels locked, shuddering and screaming along the rails. I can feel the floor of the Bufe shaking under my feet. It comes to a stop in a cloud of dust, and when the wedge is pulled away, limps slowly forward again, the wheels worn flat in the skid and seriously damaged; it bounces back a few feet on it's buffer springs then finally meets and is joined with the waiting train. It is a risky business and relies on split second timing and the skill of the engine driver. When it gets dark I stand on the platform and watch as a wagon of steel coil rolls silently out of the darkness, as slowly and stealthily as a ship with doused lights. Somewhere beyond the reach of the station's lights I hear a metallic scream followed by a crash as the wagon touches down. I do not envy the shunter's nightshift.
As I walk back, I go into the Debrecen Hotel for a drink; I enquire about rates and find that a warm room with as much coffee as I can drink is available for two-thirds of the price I am paying to freeze. I walk back to the room and pack my bag. I leave the key on the deserted reception desk, unlock the front door and let myself out. Nobody sees me leave or asks whether I would care to settle the bill before I walk away.